


you've got the love, you've got to know

by midnightfreeway



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Late Night Conversations, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23594524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightfreeway/pseuds/midnightfreeway
Summary: Crowley presses his lips together. He could never. Not in the Beginning, not now, not anywhere in between. Never, never, never.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 127





	you've got the love, you've got to know

1957

This is how it always goes: a lavish meal, a bite of something sweet, and a conversation that stretches late into the night. They sit with their heads close together in a cosy Soho restaurant, tongues loosened by good wine, surroundings forgotten. They could talk for hours, and more often than not, they do, reminiscing about the beauty of Florence at sunset, debating which Toulouse brasserie serves the best cassoulet, or simply delving into deep existential questions about the meaning of life. The world is a big, strange, fascinating place, and six thousand years later, they still haven’t run out of things to talk about. Crowley doesn’t think they ever will.

The young waiter takes his time cleaning the table next to theirs, casting meaningful looks in their direction. Crowley leans back in his chair and looks around. The restaurant has emptied out; even the kitchen is quiet now, aside from the occasional clatter of plates. It’s their cue to leave. 

(At the doorstep of the bookshop, under the streetlights, the glow in Aziraphale’s eyes is soft and so lovely. Crowley swallows and opens his mouth, but he’s tongue-tied now, voice stuck somewhere deep in his throat. It’s the cruelest irony, a sick joke he might appreciate if it wasn’t happening to him.

The silence hangs between them, thick with anticipation. They hold each other’s eyes, hold their own breaths. Crowley’s mind is racing. Are they waiting for the same thing? It’s impossible to know. 

Crowley presses his lips together. He could never. Not in the Beginning, not now, not anywhere in between. Never, never, never.)

He goes to his flat, pours himself another glass of wine. He sits on the sofa and listens to Ella Fitzgerald songs, the lights low and the house quiet around him, shadows lurking in the corners of the room. The music flows through him, an endless ocean of emotion and feeling, and even though he tries not to think, it’s a futile attempt. Crowley is always thinking, always overthinking, his mind scattering in a thousand different directions all at once. 

Nights like these, he’s sure he’ll spend another six thousand years carrying this secret with him. Crowley can’t imagine a world where this feeling is uncomplicated and accepted and good, can’t imagine Aziraphale loving him the way he loves Aziraphale and it being _all right_. There are so many obstacles, potential repercussions, things to worry about that it simply doesn’t seem worth the risk, even though hiding his feelings is hardly a better alternative. It’s a very special kind of torture, so effective that he now regularly uses it to tempt people, especially the ones he truly wants to make suffer.

He has been so good, so patient. Waiting and waiting, waiting for it to go away, but it doesn’t. It keeps growing and growing, this warm, soft feeling in his chest he wants to hate but can’t.

Crowley heaves a long-suffering sigh, dangling the empty wine glass between his fingers. He has such a deep desire to just talk to Aziraphale, to let the words spill out, years and years of bottled-up feelings and thoughts and secrets, to be listened and understood and accepted. It’s a very human experience, this all-consuming need for connection. Crowley has become terribly used to it, with all these long, meandering conversations and half-hearted arguments with Aziraphale. They’ve become such an integral part of his everyday life that at times it almost feels like there’s nothing they can’t talk about, except for -- _this_ , of course. Of course.

Crowley tips his head back against the sofa and rubs his face with his hand. _You’ll get over it_ , he thinks. It won’t make him feel any better, not really, but there will always be distractions, temptations, things to take care of. Something to keep him busy, at least for a while.

Decades, centuries, millennia later, he’s still trying to convince himself of this. At this point, it’s more like a plea than a statement. _You’ll get over it._

_You’ll get over it._

\--

1990 

_Just remember I’ll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking._

He comes close to saying it that day. He’s come close before, dangerously close, but this time, there’s a real urgency to it. It’s a now-or-never opportunity, and he chickens out at the last second. 

For one blood-curdling moment, he thinks he has missed his chance. There’s adrenaline running through his veins and a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. _Is this it?_ a voice says in the back of his mind. _Is this the best you can do? Game over now, for real?_

Turns out he -- or someone else, someone who is there that day -- has coins to spare. Somehow, miraculously, the world doesn’t end, and everything goes back to normal, for the most part. 

At first, there is immense relief. He can’t imagine what would have happened to their -- friendship if he’d said what he wanted to say. But only weeks later, he’s back to square one again, torturing himself with secret feelings and unsaid words. He should have seen it coming.

He has thought about it in great detail, mulling over every possible scenario. Which one is worse, holding back or taking the plunge? His first instinct is to say the plunge, but then he remembers that day at the airbase and the horrible, earth-shattering realisation that his last chance was slipping from his grasp. He hates to think of himself as a coward. Demons aren’t cowards. If anything, they are risk-takers, especially if they have been cowardly enough to not take the risk the first time around. He really needs to redeem himself.

On the last day of the year, he comes to the conclusion that something has to change. He can’t go on like this anymore. He is so, so tired. Anything is better than this misery, this deep loneliness in his heart. At midnight, he makes a promise to himself. He’s going to do it. It might take a while for him to get around to it, but he’s going to do it, sooner or later. He’s going to do it, and take full responsibility, and deal with the consequences, no matter the outcome.

(The worst thing that could happen? The end of the world, all over again.) 

\--

1991

A well-worn sofa sits in the middle of the living room, surrounded by stacked bookshelves and luxurious plants. They spend their evenings lounging around, shoulders touching, Aziraphale reading and Crowley watching _Cheers_ or _The Golden Girls_ with the volume turned low. The cottage smells of honey and fresh bread, and there is a plate of biscuits on the coffee table, soft and buttery and just slightly crumbly. Crowley can’t resist them.

(Every once in a while, he jolts awake in the early hours of the morning, realising he had fallen asleep on the sofa. It’s always the same scene: the TV has been turned off, and a blanket has been draped over his lap, a telltale tartan pattern. Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen, but Crowley can hear sounds from the study, a rustle of a page being turned, a clunk of a mug on a desk. 

It’s not a bad way to wake up.)

It’s yet another night in a string of many -- Friday or Saturday, Crowley isn’t sure. Darkness spills in through the curtains; an occasional gust of wind rattles the windowpanes. Aziraphale rests his weight against Crowley as he reads, his body warm and solid, a comforting presence. On the screen, Sam Malone is leaning over the bar, an easy smile on his lips. 

Moments like these, it’s easy to just -- not talk. It’s allowed, this gentle silence, even if the thoughts keep swirling around in his head, too loud in the quiet room. 

“Do you--” Crowley begins, but trails off when he realises that Aziraphale has nodded off, his head lolling against Crowley’s shoulder, then against the back of the sofa, the book still open on his lap. Crowley blinks, body tense with surprise, but his eyes are not deceiving him. Aziraphale is asleep, eyelashes trembling behind his reading glasses, breath coming in soft, even puffs. 

Crowley turns off the TV with a glare and sits in the sudden silence, unsure of what to do with himself. He can’t get up without waking Aziraphale. He can move his right arm, but not his left one, can’t really even turn his head. It’s an unexpected, but not unpleasant, way of being trapped.

He has seen Aziraphale asleep before, of course, but moments like these are few and far between. When was the last time? Crowley searches the corners of his mind, trying to remember. A memory pops into his head: early twentieth century, 1926 or 1927, mid-December. Aziraphale had fallen asleep sitting up on the sofa in the back room of the bookshop, surrounded by candles and garlands. Crowley had lingered in the kitchenette, next to the Christmas tree, not knowing where to look. Just as he’d been about to sneak out, Aziraphale had woken up and gone back to untangling tinsel as if nothing had happened. Crowley had felt a strange rush of relief and disappointment, something he couldn’t explain then and can’t explain now. He had ended up staying, and they had spent the night talking and drinking mulled wine, Aziraphale putting finishing touches on the tree and Crowley sprawling on the sofa, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

So Crowley lets him sleep. He stays awake, staring at the dark TV screen, listening to the sound of Aziraphale’s breathing. Finding words, finding courage. A confession sits on the tip of his tongue, ready to slip out at any second. Maybe tonight, maybe right now? It wouldn’t count, not really, but it would ease his mind, at least temporarily. At this point, anything is better than nothing.

Aziraphale doesn’t look like an angel when he sleeps. His brow is wrinkled, the corner of his mouth twisted, like he hasn’t quite mastered the art of restful sleep. He turns his head the other way, then back towards Crowley, his right leg twitching, then shifting slightly. Crowley picks up the book from Aziraphale’s lap and puts it on the coffee table. He doesn’t think he has ever been more awake in his life.

Somewhere between two and three in the morning, Aziraphale wakes with a start, his body jerking forward, away from Crowley. Aziraphale sits up straighter and rubs the bridge of his nose under his reading glasses, blinking heavily. He looks flabbergasted.

“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t just doze off, did I?”

“You did,” Crowley says, voice far too soft for his own liking.

Aziraphale adjusts the hem of his shirt, brushes biscuit crumbs from his lap. “Well, this is unexpected. One would think there has been some sort of mix-up, eh? What is it you always used to say? The tables have been turned?”

Crowley looks away. “It’s okay, angel. I didn’t mind.”

Aziraphale settles back against the sofa, back against Crowley. His warmth is different now, sleepy and so soft. Crowley’s heart is like a drum in his chest, pounding loudly in his ears.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes.”

“There is something I’d like to -- wanted to say for a long time.”

“Say it then, please,” Aziraphale says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, baring your soul to someone you really care about and risking everything in the process. 

(Maybe it is. Crowley wouldn’t know.)

Crowley stares down at his lap. His mouth feels dry, the surface of his tongue too rough. Aziraphale reaches out and puts a hand on his knee, squeezing gently. It should be terrifying, a reminder of how close he is, how there is no way to get out of this situation now, but it just feels reassuring, like a wordless affirmation. _I am here. Take all the time you need._

“I was thinking about you,” Crowley says. “That night in Tadfield, when we were driving around, and you were talking about how someone really loved the place, and you were trying to find a way to describe it to me. I have felt love before. I was thinking about you.”

(He had been careless then, too annoyed and distracted, almost blurting out the truth. It had been a small miracle, getting interrupted at that exact moment, not a second too late.)

“Ah,” Aziraphale says with the faintest flush on his cheeks, a beautiful hue of soft pink. It’s a rare, wonderful sight. “I assumed -- hoped, but I wasn’t sure--”

Crowley’s whole body goes tense. “You _hoped_?”

“Yes.”

“You mean -- you hoped I would love you?” 

“One does not spend thousands of years around humans without picking up a thing or two,” Aziraphale says. “When I think about love, the kind of love that humans feel for each other, the first thing that comes to mind is, well, you. It shouldn’t be all that surprising, considering you’re one of the very few people I interact with on a regular basis.”

Crowley’s head is spinning. He’s glad he’s seated. “Since when?”

Aziraphale gives it a thought. “Well, I can’t say for sure. It’s been a long time.”

“How long? Centuries?”

“Oh, longer than that,” Aziraphale says. “Millennia.”

Whatever he had expected Aziraphale to say, it was not -- this. The truth is a painful thing, like a punch in the gut, sharp and unexpected. It’s enough to leave Crowley winded and dazed, and he needs a moment to recover from the shock, to collect the thoughts that are scrambling around in his head, out of control.

“No,” he says, flatly. “You’re not serious.”

Aziraphale’s voice is quiet, almost grim. “I am.”

“But -- why didn’t you say anything?”

“For the same reason as you, I believe. I didn’t know whether it would be the right thing to do.”

Crowley can’t blame him. He is painfully aware of how much was, how much _is_ , at stake, given their positions as representatives of Hell and Heaven on Earth. He has thought about it until his head hurts, all the ramifications, consequences. If anyone found out how he felt--

“I can’t believe it,” Crowley says. “The time wasted. We should have done something. We would have found a way, the two of us, together.”

“Easy to say now,” Aziraphale says. “I was never sure whether the feeling was mutual or not. And neither were you, it seems.”

“Well, it was,” Crowley says. “It always was.”

He can’t lie, not even to himself. Part of him had assumed, too, in moments of stillness and quiet, but he always saw it as a product of his own feelings rather than something real. _Are you out of your mind?_ he remembers thinking over and over again, lying on the sofa in the privacy of his flat, staring at the ceiling. _It’s impossible. You two are different, fundamentally different. He is all light and blessings and radiant goodness. You are darkness and temptations and bad intentions. In what world, in what reality--_

“I don’t think it matters much now, what they think,” Aziraphale says. “My lot or your lot.”

“They can think whatever they want,” Crowley says. “I’m happy with where I am now.” 

Their eyes meet, lingering. Aziraphale’s eyes are soft and sincere and impossibly blue, even in the half-dark. 

“Me too,” he says.

Crowley hesitates again, struggling to find the right words.

“The truth is,” he says, carefully. “The truth is, I don’t mind living here, sharing this cottage with you. It hasn’t been half bad.”

“It’s quite pleasant,” Aziraphale agrees. “Lots of peace and quiet.”

“It’s easier to breathe here. And there’s enough space for gardening.”

“And nice little cafes, and a lot of opportunities to do good.”

“Er, right. When you think what could have happened--”

“I know. We are very lucky to be here, together. I think about it a lot, to be honest, how I shouldn’t take any of this for granted. Sometimes it’s just easy to forget, when every day is so -- lovely.”

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, blinking slowly. He’s at a loss for words. How many times has he thought about this exact same thing, trying but failing to find a way to describe how he feels? 

(He still has a long way to go, but he’s getting better at it, little by little.) 

“I’d say we deserve it,” Crowley says. “The Universe owes us one.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“And not just for what happened. We’ve been through all sorts of things over the years. Good and bad.”

“Six thousand years is a long time,” Aziraphale agrees.

“Right. I think a break is in order.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says. “I wouldn’t mind it lasting a little longer than that.”

“Ah,” Crowley says. “Make it a century, then?”

“You know perfectly well that a century goes by in a blink of an eye.”

“Of course, of course.” Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. “A millennium?”

“I’d rather not think about how much time there is left, to be honest,” Aziraphale says. “What is the point in that? What really matters is that we are here now, and all is well.”

“No time like the present.”

“Yes, indeed. I think we should keep that in mind.” 

“Irrefutable, ineffable wisdom,” Crowley says. “You know what? I’m not going to argue with that.”

“Me neither,” Aziraphale says. “Best not to.”

Crowley sucks in a breath and closes his eyes. The tension is starting to seep out of his body, leaving behind a jumble of tired muscles, aching limbs. He feels more exhausted than he has in a long, long time, exhausted in the best way possible, drained after a good, emotional conversation. He wants nothing more than to sleep, to slip into the blissful state of unconsciousness, his mind quiet and pleasantly empty. 

It’s his turn to lean against Aziraphale. Crowley sinks deeper into the welcoming cushions of the sofa, presses his cheek against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale keeps stroking Crowley’s hand where it rests on Crowley’s thigh, the touch tender and feather-light.

“Don’t you want to go to bed, my dear?”

“Nuh,” Crowley says without opening his eyes. “Don’t feel like getting up.”

“Very well.” Aziraphale pats his knee softly. “We’ll stay right here, then.”

There is so much he wants to tell Aziraphale. All those times he felt like he couldn’t take the pressure anymore, all those times he stopped himself at the last possible moment. And the words will flow, leaving his lips with ease, without a second thought. He wants to listen, too, wants to listen to that angelic voice and hum in response and discover truths he didn’t know existed. They will look at each other, eyes alight with understanding, and there will be a connection that didn’t exist before, deep and intimate and cherished. 

They have time. There will be long conversations over breakfast in their tiny kitchen, their fingers sticky with butter, rain pattering against the window. Stories told in the privacy of their garden, the sun warm on their faces, the flowers in full bloom. Carefully-worded confessions in the dead of night, the silence waiting to be filled by their voices. They have all the time in the world. And yet, Crowley longs for a taste of it, a taste of all the good things that are about to come.

(Greediness is not a good look on anyone, but he is a demon, after all.)

“Tell me something,” Crowley says, mumbling, barely able to make out the words himself. “Anything.”

“That is an awfully vague request,” Aziraphale says. There is an unmistakable fondness in his voice.

“Stories.” The word turns into a hiss, slithering off his tongue.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “Where should I begin?”

“The beginning, obviously.”

Crowley cracks open an eye, just in time to see Aziraphale wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and open his mouth.


End file.
